Fire and Light
by Oboe-Wan
Summary: Takes place during the Second Age - Celebrimbor, Galadriel, and Celeborn. - revised chapter 2!
1. Default Chapter

"Can you tell me," Celeborn said intently to his wife's kinsman, "why it is that I don't trust you?"

His face was earnest, and his request, though disconcerting, was honest.

"My Lord, that is something you must seek in your own conscience," Celebrimbor replied shortly, standing from the table to follow Galadriel from the dining hall.

"I have sought, believe me. And I cannot determine what it is. Pray, have you some insight?"

Celebrimbor should have been insulted, perhaps. But Celeborn's manner was not insulting, and he was questioning his own heart as much as his companion's.

"I daresay, you blame me for the deeds of my father. But you know that I renounced Curufin's claims on me long before he sought to usurp your brother-in-law's kingdom, or to imprison your cousin, or to destroy…"

Celeborn shook his head. "No, I place more blame for the fate of Doriath on myself than I could ever put on another." He smiled a gentle smile, full of regret.

"If that is the case, then I cannot imagine why you distrust me," Celebrimbor replied coolly.

"Nor can I. And I _want_ to trust you." Celeborn extended a hand to Celebrimbor, which Celebrimbor grasped briefly before making a slight bow, and going on his way.

The lord of the Noldor, who, despite his estrangement from Curufin his father, claimed descent from Fëanor and Finwë as proudly as any, strode away from the hall, fists clenching and unclenching.

Celebrimbor had no use for Celeborn's trust, nor any desire for his friendship.

There was but one thing Celeborn possessed that Celebrimbor coveted.

She knelt near the doorway of his study, running her fingers over the pages of one of his books – a collection of sketches of Nargothrond and many of its residents - showing them to the shimmering little creature that was Celeborn's child. The book was his own work, and he was pleased to see anyone admire it.

The Lady Galadriel might have seemed a little sad to some. She had been given all the pride and ambition of the Noldor, with none of their skill in craftsmanship or artistry. But Celebrimbor did not see this as a cause for sadness, merely evidence of her incompletion. Incompletion which was made all the more glaring by the constrast of her Sindarin husband.

She lifted her eyes to his, and Celebrimbor wondered how he could ever think of her as imperfect. All the power of their race, which had blossomed under the tutelage of a Maia, shone from those eyes. It only wanted hands to shape it.

"Uncle Finrod?" Celebrian asked, reaching out to touch the sketch as well.

"That's right, little one," Galadriel replied, impulsively kissing the top of her daughter's head. 

"Will I ever meet him?"

Galadriel paused, her expression grave. "I don't know," she answered softly.

"He's pretty," Celebrian observed, smiling, and looking up at her mother. "Like you."

Galadriel smiled in return. "And you," she said, pulling her daughter close.

_"Lord Finrod's bride?" Celebrimbor asked his companion in surprise, watching the golden maiden hurry forward from the delegation from Menegroth to embrace the lord of Nargothrond._

"His sister," Celegorm replied to his young nephew, "and our cousin, Lady Galadriel. You knew that she lived in Doriath.."

She was laughing now, and Finrod had thrown an arm about her shoulders, as Celebrimbor had seen him do with Orodreth and Aegnor and Angrod. Her golden hair shone more brilliantly than the sunlight caught in its curls, and her eyes passed over him briefly as she surveyed the assembly.

Celebrimbor felt a chill run down his spine. 

"She's…."

"Yes, she is a piece of work, isn't she? The sculptors use her face as a template for statues of the Valier. But don't be fooled by all that rosy skin and golden hair – she's tough as steel, and her heart is about as warm."

Even in his youth, Celebrimbor was already a promising smith's apprentice, and knew very well how to soften steel.

"Why don't you find Daddy?" Galadriel told Celebrian, standing and running her fingers through her daughter's silken hair, the color of electrum.

"Where is he?" Celebrian asked.

"That's why you're finding him," Galadriel pointed out, grinning fondly at her child.

Celebrian giggled and began to scamper off. "You're not coming, Mother?" she asked, pausing and turning after a moment.

"In just a little bit. I think Celebrimbor wants to speak with me," she answered, raising an eyebrow at her cousin, who had started from his memories when she first spoke. "Go on."

Celebrian obeyed, and Galadriel closed the book and handed it to him. 

"Thank you. I can't think of a likeness of my brother that I prefer."

"High praise. I admired Lord Finrod, and it pleases me that you approve of my sketches."

Galadriel narrowed her eyes at him a little. "What is it, Celebrimbor?"

Celeborn's kisses were soft, and sweet. Somehow, she thought of them as cleansing. Their union had been one of reconciliation, and forgiveness. The Telerin Prince had placed his chaste kiss on the brow of his Noldor bride, and the world, like her, was washed new again for a moment…

Celebrimbor's kisses burned like the fires of his forge – the fires of his fëa. 

Galadriel struggled out of his unexpected grasp. His hands were strong, but she had strength to match, and she pushed his face from hers, breathing hard.

He did not press back for the moment, but stayed, his face an arm's length from hers, his fingers still twined in her hair, his steel grey eyes still burning.

"You felt it, didn't you?" he murmured, chest heaving.

Galadriel glared at him with all the anger and indignation she could muster, praying to any who would listen that he could not see the fear and confusion mingled with them in her eyes.

"I could not very well have missed _that_, my _cousin_," she retorted acidly, her nails biting into the flesh of his hand. She moved to shove him further back, but he was immobile. He remained the length of her arm away.

_He's stronger than I am_. The thought should hardly have surprised her. Celebrimbor the smith, physically, had the advantage over Galadriel the…

Galadriel, Melian's student.

Galadriel, Celeborn's bride. 

Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin. 

Her will would bow to no one.

"You surprised me, _cousin_. And you forget yourself."

"No… I remembered my_self_ just now. And I remembered you, Galadriel." He did not press closer, but might as well have, for the way his eyes bore into hers. "I know you felt it. I _felt_ you feel it," he continued, pulling his hand from her hair, and brushing it softly against her lips, which she pulled into a scowl.

"You are my kin, Celebrimbor, our blood is…"

"No more similar than your blood is to your husband's, lady. I would ask you not to throw such pitiful, hypocritical excuses at me." A few strands of his raven hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and for one moment of awful fear, Galadriel noticed again how much Celebrimbor resembled his grandfather.

"I am a wife, Celebrimbor, and happily so," she answered quickly, to cover her fear. What reason had she to fear him? The strength of his arm was useless next to the strength of her mind… and his mind lay unprotected before her. They were even – she was a slender elfwoman caught off her guard, and he had lowered all his defenses before Melian's pupil, who could have him asleep on his feet or writhing in nightmares before she could bat an eyelash.

His lip curled a little, disdainfully, and his pearl white teeth flashed. "Celeborn. Tell me, Galadriel, has your Noldor blood been so diluted that _he_ can understand _you_? Are you a naught but a swan lady with a head of Vanyar hair ?" Returning his fingers to her golden waves, he pulled her hair tight in the hand that he wrapped in it, and Galadriel tried not to flinch. "No," he continued, letting his hand loosen. "That was not what I felt. I felt the fire of your spirit respond to mine, Galadriel."

Celebrimbor's grey eyes fluttered shut, and his thick dark lashes stood out starkly from the white of his cheek. He covered her mouth with his again, and breathed her in…

Galadriel's fingers tightened, breaking the skin of his hand. 

And in that moment, she feared his fire and passion might consume her.

In the next, he was nursing his bleeding lip with his bleeding hand.

Galadriel rubbed at her fist a little where it had connected with his face, and took a deep breath.

"You are your father's son, as surely as he was his…"

"I am not Fëanor, Galadriel. I am not a phantom of the past, but flesh and" he smiled a little ruefully as he looked at his hand, "blood. Present. Celebrimbor. And I love you."

"Indeed you are not Fëanor, but I see him in your eyes. Keep your distance, for Varda's sake," Galadriel bade, her voice raised a little as he moved forward.

"Do you hear but half of my words? I _love_ you Galadriel. I burn with it."

Galadriel took another step back, and straightened.

"And I understand your spirit as your Sindarin husband cannot."

"What," she began softly. "What is it you understand, Celebrimbor? What is it you love?"

His eyes swept over her, and his face became worshipful.

"You. The Golden Lady of the Noldor. Your ambition, your power, your dignity, your intelligence, your beauty…. _You_. All that you are."

And Galadriel knew… it was not Celebrimbor's spirit she feared might consume her…

But her own.

Celebrimbor was her compliment – a lense for her light, to make it seem all the more brilliant.

And Celeborn was her opposite, her foil – moonlight to her sunshine, water to her flame, a chorus of woodwinds to her brass, and silver to her gold.

"Consider, Celebrimbor, that one can understand something without possessing it."

"Galadriel…"

"I do not wish to be worshipped," she replied.

"But I…"

"Do not know what love is," Galadriel completed for him, not unkindly.

Celebrimbor looked away, his fists tightening. When he looked back, his smile was empty. "Then I shall worship you. I cannot help myself."

"And I shall pray for you," she replied, not liking the pain in his eyes, and meaning it.

Celebrimbor's goddess left his study, and Celeborn's wife happened upon her husband and daughter not far away, in the garden.

Celeborn was watching the stars, but Celebrian seemed far more intent on the fireflies.

Galadriel sat beside her husband, and he turned to smile at her, the starlight sparkling in his stormy grey eyes.

"Celeborn… when you look at me…what do you love?" The moment the words passed her lips they sounded foolish – vulnerable. If she rejected worship, what was this love that she would accept? 

Of course she knew. But she wanted to hear it.

Celeborn laughed his beautiful laugh, and shook his beautiful head a little. 

"Galadriel, beloved, you know there are things about you that I do not always like. But I _love_ them, because they are you. I'm afraid my love is too illogical to explain away." He smiled at her, and leaned forward to kiss her.

Celeborn's spirit had a fire of it own – one that burned pure and bright, like a blue flame. But it did not threaten to consume her, nor did it magnify her glory.

In fact, she could hardly think of herself at all.

"When next you see your cousin, you might tell him that while drinking strong wine lacks an element of wisdom, it is considerably more foolish to do so before kissing someone else's wife."

Celeborn's eyes were inquisitive, but not reproachful. There was another emotion there, but one she was not sure she wanted to read.

"Did he hurt you?" he continued quietly. "Or, should I ask, did you hurt him?" A dry smile pulled at Celeborn's lips.

"Not seriously," Galadriel replied, returning the ironic grin. "I think, for the sake of Celebrimbor's dignity, we should not speak of it just now."

"Forgive me," Celeborn responded quickly, nodding.

"Daddy, I caught one!" Celebrian's little voice rose delightedly, her hands cupped around a flash of topaz light.

"My clever girl! May I see him?" Celeborn hurried to kneel at their daughter's side, all trace of irony gone from his beautiful smile.

How like the gentle boy of Doriath she fell in love with he still was, she pondered, as he tenderly explained to Celebrian that she could not keep the firefly, only visit with him a while.

Was she still the golden maiden who lost her heart?

How they sparkled in the starlight – her daughter and her husband. 

_"Come have a look, little one."_

Galadriel hesitated.

"They're not going to hurt you." Fëanor raised an eyebrow at his niece, mocking expression daring her to come forward.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Galadriel took a few steps forward, but paused. The gems, inside their coffer, cast a glow of starlight onto Fëanor's flawless face.

"Why?" she asked, abruptly.

Fëanor blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"If you want starlight, you need only turn your eyes to the sky. If you want the light of the Trees to mingle, you need only wait for Telperion and Laurelin to bloom together. Why put it in a crystal? Why did you make those?"

"Have you ever held a star in the palm of your hand?" he replied, his own hand disappearing into the coffer to let his fingers fall over the Silmarils.

Galadriel didn't bother to answer that.

"Have you never wanted the Mingling of the lights to last eternity?"

He looked up at her, and she met his eyes steadily. Unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Perhaps you haven't," he mused, reaching out a hand to softly touch a strand of her hair that lay on her shoulder. Galadriel flinched, but did not back away. "In short," he continued, "to hold the light of the trees in my hand… to posess beauty. To make it my own."

Galadriel shook her head and took a step back. "I don't think I want to see them."

Celeborn laid his sweet kisses on Celebrian's forehead, and for an instant, Galadriel felt the searing fire of Celebrimbor's lips still.

"Mother, want to see my…" Celebrian stopped midsentence when she realized her mother had left the garden. The firefly was making its way from between her tiny fingers. Antennae waving, it took flight, shining for an instant like a star. 

"It's gone," she observed sadly.

"Let's catch another one, all right, princess?" Celeborn asked, smiling.

Celebrian could tell that Daddy didn't want to be smiling… he was worried. She didn't like it when Daddy worried. And if he wanted to catch a firefly, that's just what they'd do.

The forge glowed, and the metal threw sparks when Celebrimbor brought his hammer down in musical blows. 

It was too large a hammer for the task he'd set for himself. The strip of metal was unfurling into a spray of delicate leaves, and he seemed intent on forming them with the grossly inappropriate tool.

And he was succeeding.

"A silver tree," he said bitterly to the figure who had appeared in the threshold of his workshop, as he carelessly thrust the fruit of his frustration into the barrel of water, producing clouds of steam.

"It's beautiful," she said simply.

"I see you've come to tell me what a fool I am," he observed, pulling off his leather gloves and wiping sweat from his white, soot-streaked forehead.

She did not speak to contradict him.

"For who but a fool would fall in love with his married cousin," he continued, lips pulling into a sneer, meant for himself, her, and all of Middle-Earth.

"Celebrimbor," Galadriel replied, by way of answer.

"And I do love you. You may tell me that I do not. You may even believe it, if it lightens your heart. But it will not change the truth."

He stood before her, bathed in the ruddy glow of his forge, a flawless image of a Noldor prince, and internally, as deeply flawed as any. The firelight shone on his raven hair, and his white cheeks glowed pink in the heat. He was as lovely as a statue he might've sculpted from marble, save that his magnificent form was bare only from hands to elbows. With Celebrimbor's work, it was always impossible to tell which was the more beautiful - creation, or creator.

"Forgive my words. I was… confused." She put a hand to her forehead.

"I managed confusion. How remarkable." Whether or not this was meant as sarcasm was impossible to determine.

"I cannot know your heart, and I have no right to judge –"

"You _will_ not, you mean," he amended for her, pulling off his thick leather apron as the fires started to die.

"I might know your _mind_, if I wished, and if I had call," she began.

"No, I'm pleased enough that you chose not to pry."

"What might I find there?"

Celebrimbor smiled a smile that did not touch his eyes. "Typical Noldor arrogance. You are my equal, Galadriel."

She arched an eyebrow at him.

"And sooner or later, everyone chafes in the company of those less than himself. You of all people should understand that," he remarked dryly.

"I would ask that you leave my husband out of this," she retorted.

__

Hardly a flattering thing to say. Can Celeborn's merits not stand up to scrutiny? Or is it just that you feel this is so?

"I don't think you mean that," Celebrimbor answered wistfully.

"I…don't know what I mean," she muttered, rubbing her forehead again.

"Confused again?" He smiled a self-mocking smile.

Galadriel shot him a freezing look, but it took more than a look to freeze fire.

"My heart has the better part of it. That's what you felt. That's what you…"

"What did I feel?" Galadriel asked herself, her fingers going to her lips.

"What we might do together? What we might become? Galadriel, we are the same." He caught her by her elbows, and she tilted her face up to meet his steel grey eyes, soft as quicksilver. "You know my spirit and I know yours. If we were one…"

A lense for her light… just as she would be one for his.Eyes closed, he leaned towards her, lips parted slightly, and his beautiful hands reaching up to cradle her face.

__

Light… like the light of the stars on silver hair.

Celeborn, who had the strength to oppose her opinions, and still love her.

Celeborn, who taught her compassion and selflessness by his example.

Celeborn, who, like Finarfin, never hesitated to point out that hers was not the only light, and that it was only hers for the glory of Iluvatar.

Not the glory of Galadriel.

"Celebrimbor," she said, her tone making him open his eyes, and lower his hands. "I cannot deny, that … part of me desires what you offer. But I do not love you."

"Do not," he repeated, "or will not?"

"Do not, will not, can not. Not the way you want me to."

He took a step away from her, eyes again pained, and again hard.

"But I do respect you, cousin. And I _will_ not make you some tool to further myself."

"And I am to believe that is all you would have me be?""I fear that is what would happen if I…"

"You fear," he repeated, a little scornful again.

"I know," she corrected. "As do you, if you know _me_ as well as you claim. And I will not allow it to happen. Celebrimbor," she said, capturing his eyes, "I love Celeborn."

Never breaking eye contact, he stepped back again. "We cannot chose whom we love."

Celeborn watched the branch of delicate silver leaves wilt and melt under the enthusiastic blows of Celebrimbor's hammer.

"Melting effigies?" he asked sarcastically.

__

More like beating them to formless lumps of slag, actually.

"I suppose you know the answer to your earlier question," Celebrimbor replied, ostensibly ignoring Celeborn's attempts at humor.

Celeborn snorted. "Celebrimbor… I do not think it would surprise you to learn that you were not the first to fall in love with Galadriel, nor will you be the last."

Celebrimbor's only response was to pound a little harder at the now unrecognizable strip of silver.

"I'll try not to hold it against you," he continued dryly. "After all, we have something in common, now." His smile was gentle, but Celebrimbor did not bother to look at it.

So, Celeborn had come to gloat. "Get out," Celebrimbor murmured.

"As you wish. But I…thought you might like to know. I think I've figured out why I don't trust you."

"And I should want to know this?"

"I believe I may be a bit frightened of you."

Celebrimbor let his hammer fall. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he snapped.

Celeborn shrugged. "It's not 'supposed' to do anything. It is."

"What is it you fear?" Celebrimbor asked, unable to contain the question.

"I think perhaps you don't give yourself enough credit. You may be capable of more than you know."

Celebrimbor was…. baffled. "And you fear that?"

"There is little more dangerous than someone who does not know his own strength."

"So I'm dangerous?" Celebrimbor asked skeptically.

"No. But it's possible." Celeborn crossed his arms, and his grey eyes met Celebrimbor's.

"I still want you to leave."

Nodding, Celeborn obeyed.

[Unfinished Tales "Of Celeborn and Galadriel" mentions Celebrimbor's love for Galadriel…

And he just wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this. 

This sequence of scenes takes place in the Second Age, before the forging of the Rings of Power.

As always, this is my expression of my love for Professor Tolkien's work, and I mean only the greatest respect towards him by letting my imagination play in his beautiful Middle-earth.

Many thanks to Deborah, for all her patience and insight!!!!]


	2. II

He fell to his knees before her, and Galadriel, hurrying forward to help him to his feet, knew that she was probably the only child of Iluvatar for whom Celebrimbor would show such respect.

Accepting her offered hand gratefully, Celebrimbor leaned on her heavily when he stood.  She could see the exhaustion in his steely eyes.

"Eregion?" she asked softly.

Celebrimbor closed his eyes.  "Celeborn is holding it.  The scholar makes a fine warrior and a better commander, when he's called to it."

Galadriel felt something within her relax, knowing that, a little while ago, her husband had been well.

"He sends his love, but I'm afraid it's gotten all tangled in mine along the way," Celebrimbor told her, an amused, almost sweet smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he opened this eyes.

Galadriel returned his gaze, her eyes sad.

"I have come for your counsel, lady," he stated, straightening, and letting go of her.  "And with a gift."  He raised a hand to his chest, pressing something strung on a mithril chain under his shirt against his skin.  "How did you know?" he asked her softly.

"How did I know what?"

"That Annatar… was not to be trusted?"

Galadriel shrugged.  "I didn't.  I felt it.  Too many years with Melian, I suppose."

"Or perhaps just enough.  Things could've been worse, had it not been for the seed of doubt you planted in my soul."  His hand went back to the chain around his neck.  He turned his eyes back to her, and smiled unexpectedly.  "Before I ask your counsel, I must give my hostess a gift, almost worthy of her."

Celebrimbor unfastened the chain from around his neck, and pulled it out from his shirt.  Strung on it were three rings, twinkling in the candlelight.  Celebrimbor let them drop from the chain into his palm.

They were beautiful.

This was only natural, since Celebrimbor had obviously made them.  Galadriel knew her cousin's work – it was sometimes a great deal too like her uncle's for comfort.

_I am not Fëanor…_

Galadriel knew this to be true, although Celebrimbor's eyes assured her otherwise at times.  Celebrimbor had spent a lifetime trying to atone for the folly of his father, and his father's father, and to prove their glory to any who cared to see.  Celebrimbor believed in the glory of the Noldor, in a time when most of the Noldor had long abandoned it.  

Who was Fëanor, after all, but the greatest of the Noldor?  The Kinslayer.  The Maker of the Silmarils.

_Why is it always three? Galadriel wondered irrationally._

"He called them 'Rings of Power' when he taught us of their making.  And in our vanity we sought to make them as gifts for the Three Kindred of Arda Marred.    And three seemed appropriate for the Firstborn."

 "Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri?"

"Fire, air, and water," Celebrimbor agreed.  "Narya, Vilya, and Nenya."  He extended his hand towards her, offering her all three.  "Who better to bear them all, than a child of Finarfin and Eärwen, in whose veins flows the blood of all three races?"

"Celebrimbor, their maker," she suggested, making no move to accept the rings.

"Celebrimbor the fool, you mean," he retorted, raking his fingers through his raven hair.

"No," she replied easily, "that's not what I mean."

"Perhaps Celebrimbor the proud?  Or… Celebrimbor the vain?  Personally, I think fool sums it all up rather nicely."

Galadriel interrupted his words by reaching out to take his hands, and closing them around the rings again.

"Celebrimbor the fallible," she suggested.  "There is no shame that he tricked you.  By Elbereth's stars, he tricked Manwë himself!  No one condemns you for it."

"I do," he replied, eyes hard.  "And I have lied to you, my lady…"

Galadriel blinked.  "On what matter?"  

"There is no opinion that I value more than yours.  But whatever counsel you give, I shall return to Eregion.  And I shall either save my people, or die with them."

Galadriel squeezed his hands gently.

He seized the wrist of her right hand, turned it over, and placed the rings in her palm.

"You must take them.  If I keep them, they may fall into Sauron's hands at last."

Galadriel gazed at them, already feeling the throb of their power as they touched her skin.

_The red-stoned one on her right hand, and the blue and white ones on her left…  _

_Dared the murderer of her brother threaten the lives of others?  Maia, was he?  She did not fear Sauron the Maia, or his legions of twisted, tortured Quendi.  Sauron would join his Master in the Abyss, and the orcs she would obliterate.  Celeborn would never again have to go through the pain of killing an orc.  Celeborn…_

"Celebrimbor, you do your work too well.  I cannot bear them all," Galadriel gasped, almost dropping the rings.

"Then choose one.  And give the others to whomever you wish."

They lay in her palm, equal in beauty and power, and nothing alike.

"I have fire enough of my own," Galadriel said, smiling a little.  "Perhaps too much.  And wind might fan it.  So…" She lifted the silver one, which embraced a white gem like a star, and moved, as though in a dream, to place it on her finger.

Celebrimbor stilled her hands.  "No."  His voice had taken on a sharp, commanding tone – one she had heard often enough from his mouth, but never directed at her.  "You musn't wear it.  Annatar," he sneered, using the title as an insult, "thinks to control the works of his pupils, and I fear he might succeed."  He restrung the white ring onto the mithril chain he'd worn, and reached up reverently to place it around Galadriel's neck.  His fingers brushed gently against her shoulders as he drew back. 

The chain was long on her, making the ring hang down between her breasts.  She picked it up, and considered it in her hand.  It looked like it would fit as though it had been made for her…

 "So it was," Celebrimbor whispered, taking the hand holding the ring and pressing it to his lips.

"Mother?"  Celebrian looked up from her book abruptly. 

Galadriel did not reply, but clutched her daughter's hand all the more tightly.

"Mother, what's wrong?" Celebrian insisted, putting her other hand on top of the one squeezing hers.

"They're killing him," Galadriel said quietly, her eyes tightly closed.

"Who?" Celebrian demanded, bewildered.  "What are you talking about?"  

Quiet again, Galadriel squeezed harder.

"Not…" she almost couldn't say it, "Father?"

Galadriel shook her head.  "No… "  She removed her hand from her daughter's grasp, pulled a chain free from the neckline of her gown, and held it up.

The white gem of Nenya twinkled coldly at Celebrian.

"Celebrimbor," Celebrian stated softly.  "How do you know?"

"I… can feel it."

Celebrian stared.  "What do you mean… 'feel it?'"

"He's trying so hard to keep it from me.  But… he's dying.  I can't help feeling a little of his pain."

            Celebrian swallowed hard.

"Mother, if it's that ring, then you should…get rid of it," she concluded lamely.

Galadriel shook her golden head.  "It is not a connection that I would break, even if I could."

"Mother!  If he's…"

"No one should die alone."

"What are you doing in my head?" Celebrimbor breathed the words softly through cracked and bleeding lips.  Surely, _surely_ she didn't mean to pit her will against Sauron's, and their ring against the One….

_I didn't spend centuries in Doriath merely admiring the scenery, Celebrimbor, Galadriel's thought retorted irritably._

He felt a twinge of relief.  Perhaps if she wasn't using Nenya directly…"Still, it is not safe.  You have _it," he said meaningfully, "and if he senses you, it may all be for naught." He spoke aloud, too tired to order his thoughts without speech._

_Have a little faith in the abilities you claim to respect._

"Get out of my mind, Galadriel," he murmured flatly.

_Pray, don't presume to start giving me orders, Celebrimbor.  I will be careful._

He could practically see the graceful arch of her eyebrows, and her ever so slightly disdainful expression.

"Be reasonable, Galadriel.  I'm going to die."

_Are you asking to die alone?_

Celebrimbor lifted his head a fraction.  "It's what I deserve."

_You are__ a fool._

There was gentleness in her reproach. Tenderness, affection even.  But not the love he'd wanted.  And still did want.

He felt her sadness then, and realized with regret that a little of that sadness was his fault.  

"Forgive me," he murmured.

_What have I to forgive?  I am not a Vala to forgive your sins - I can only forgive transgressions against myself.  And what have you done but…_

"Love you," Celebrimbor completed, unsure of who's thought it was.

There were no words – just a sort of mental, or perhaps spiritual gesture.  Had she been present, she would've reached out to him.  Her presence was so real, so tangible, and such a comfort, it was almost as though she'd cradled his bruised and bleeding head in her gentle hands, and laid it against her breast, so that he could hear the beating of her heart, feel her soft breath from between her rosebud lips, breathe in the scent of her glorious hair from where it spilled shimmering over one slender shoulder…

_You're trying my patience, you realize._

"Can't a dying fool dream?" he murmured.

_Only if he can manage to keep them to himself.  I'd rather not be privy to them, that's all._

He dragged his eyelids open to see her expression, forgetting for instant that she wasn't with him.  But no Galadriel raised her eyebrows at him.  There were only walls.  Walls and chains.   And beyond the walls and chains, there were orcs.  And Sauron.

"Galadriel," he breathed, almost as though he were praying.  "I'm afraid.  I'm afraid to die."

And for a moment, he could feel her pain too.

_I will be with you.  I won't leave you alone.  _

With Galadriel at his side, he did not fear Sauron.  With Galadriel at his side…

"Beloved," he gasped, lips bleeding anew.  "Go."  Even the idea of his Three… his Work, his Rings that dazzled him so that he could not raise a hand to destroy them, twisted and tainted in the hands of Sauron….  Even this paled at the thought of Galadriel's mind put to torment, as his had been.  The Rings had come from him, and he loved them.  But he loved her more.  "Shall it give me comfort to know you are in danger?"

_I will stay…until I can stay no longer.  _

And in spite of his fear, and his pain, Celebrimbor smiled.

He wasn't sure if he felt it or heard it first.  But a moment later, he was staring at his broken sword, while still using the portion connected to the hilt to fend off an orc carrying a sword breaker.

The orc stumbled backward, pinned to its fellow by a slender shaft, neatly fletched with dyed-green feathers, making the arrow resemble a young sapling with freshly unfurled leaves.

Celeborn sheathed what was left of his sword and fell back to join the archers.

"My thanks!" he called, and the dark haired Noldor boy who'd loosed the arrow that had probably saved Celeborn's life shot him a bright, fierce grin as he pulled another arrow from his quiver.

It was a waste of a fine blade, he reflected sourly as his elbow brushed the pommel amid his movements to unstrap his longbow from his back, string it, and ready a shaft.  He wasn't likely to find the equal of a blade of Doriath in this age, when swords of ancient Elvish forges snapped like reeds in a flood.  Someday, he might have it reforged, he mused, letting four shafts fly, and felling half as many orcs.  He was still a little shaken, and it was affecting his aim.  He couldn't afford to waste arrows.

On the brow of the hill, which was boiling with the armored bodies of orcs, a standard was raised, a dark stain against the pale, cold sky.  Celeborn lifted his eyes from his target to glance at it.  

An instant later, he yanked off his light helm, and the strands of his shimmering silver hair that had come free of their loose plait glowed like a halo in the grey morning light.  

It was a pole made for a standard, but no banner snapped in the brisk wind.  Sauron's new standard merely swayed heavily.

The body of an Elf was bound to the pole, in a position of crucifixion.   His legs were tied to the shaft, his elbows had been hooked behind the cross beam and lashed in place, and his head hung limply, short dark hair stirring across a white forehead.

Celeborn fought back a wave of nausea, and was brought violently from his horror when the archer who'd saved his life stumbled against him.

"Lord Celebrimbor…"

A nightmare.  If only it could be a nightmare.

"We must cut him down," the boy said, his voice clear, and his eyes streaming.  He grasped Celeborn's shoulder with a grip like iron.

Celeborn flinched as a few black, barbed arrows sank into Celebrimbor's body.

"No," he replied quietly.

The boy flushed, wet eyes fierce.  "We cannot allow them to…"

"Our concern is for the living," Celeborn said sharply, pushing the archer back towards his position.

"Then I will cut him down."  The boy started forward, but Celeborn caught hold of his arm and did not let got.

"Celebrimbor did not give his life that you or anyone else should die for a corpse."

The boy turned back to him, more tears pouring down his face.

"Live," Celeborn ordered, sternly, and gently.  "And remember."

Celebrian pushed a few strands of hair behind her mother's ear, and reached back down to twine her fingers with Galadriel's slender ones.

"Wake, please," she whispered, for not, by far, the first time.  "Please come back, mother…"

But Galadriel's face remained a placid mask of concentraion, her eyes staring hard at the ceiling, as though it were a window, or a mirror, and her gaze broken only by the occasional flick of her eyelids. Her body had dropped like a marionette with severed strings a few moments before, as though whereever her mind was required every possible shred of attention and strength she possessed.

Celebrian laid down beside her mother's still form on the carpeted study floor, and pressed her face into Galadriel's shoulder, partly wishing to lend her own strength to her mother's trial, and partly a frightened child seeking comfort in her mother's familiar smell and warmth.

Her tears soaking in the fabric of Galadriel's dress, Celebrian huddled close, still calling…

"Mother…  Mother, please."

It was a few moments before she realized that she felt a hand gently stroking her hair.

"Hush, my little one.  I'm here, and I'm well enough."

Galadriel helped Celebrian sit up, and wiped the tears from her daughter's face.

"I … I was so frightened!"  Celebrian took her mother's hand from her own cheek and kissed it impulsively, tasting the salt of her tears.

            "So was I," Galadriel replied dryly, her expression gentle despite her sarcastic tone.

            "Celebrimbor," Celebrian began, concerned.  "Is he… all right then?"  He'd always rather intimidated her, but she did not wish him ill.

            A shadow of pain flickered across her mother's face.  "All right?  Now, I suppose he is.  He's dead."  Her voice was brittle, like thin glass.

            "Dead?"  Celebrian heard the stunned voice, and wondered who would ask such an inane question.

            "He was very brave, and very foolish.  And if the suffering he faced today means anything, he will not wait long in Mandos."

            Celebrian shivered.  What kind of suffering would make death look "all right", she wondered?  She put her arms back around her mother, and buried her face in Galadriel's white-clad shoulder.

            Galadriel put her face against her daughter's hair, and raised a hand to stroke through the smooth electrum strands.  "Dear one, I don't know if you knew… that Celebrimbor…" she began hesitantly.

            Celebrian looked up, and nodded.  "Yes."  She had known, since she was a child, that Celebrimbor had loved her mother like no one but her father had any business loving her mother.

            "Try not to hold it against him," Galadriel said softly.  "He tried so hard."

            Smiling through more tears, Celebrian laughed softly.  "How could I?"

Celeborn lay prostrate on the mat that served as a bed in his tent.  Blades of grass pushed through the weave of the fabric, and brushed against his forehead.  For an instant, he envied them… to be olvar and to grow and flower and be beautiful, without knowing fear or hate or pain, to praise Iluvatar by one's simple act of existing…

He felt a few tears soak into the mat, although he hadn't felt them fall.  It would take a battle like this one to make him wish to be a blade of grass.

There was a time when the very sight of an orc had physically sickened Celeborn, and when simply looking into their crumpled faces tore at his soul.  But that was in Beleriand, when the world was young.  Perhaps orcs had been less twisted then.  Or perhaps it was just that in Beleriand, Celeborn had never cradled an Elf in his arms while that Elf bled out his life into the mud.  Part of his soul had gotten hard and calloused from too much use.  One could either shield oneself against the pain, or go mad.

His body ached, screaming at him to rest, but the images in his head while he was awake warned him of what his dreams would be.

_"I must confer with the Lady Galadriel," Celebrimbor told him curtly, putting a hand at something strung under his shirt, and pressing it to his skin.  "I'm going to Lindon."_

_Celeborn said nothing, but Doriath burned in his eyes._

_"And I will return to Eregion.  I swear it by all the blood that was spilled for the Silmarils."_

_Celeborn shuddered.  "Don't… don't make such a vow."_

_Celebrimbor smiled mirthlessly, and his eyes were hard.  "It is made."_

_Breaking the silence, through his pain and concern, Celeborn spoke up.  "Tell her I love her."_

_Celebrimbor's hard smile turned wry.  "I'm certain she's aware of that."_

_Celebrimbor stood on the stairs of The House of the Mírdain, his blade black, his eyes bright.  Celeborn stood at his back, his sword hilt wet and slick with the orc blood, still warm on his blade, and dripping down to his hands.  _

_It was chaos - a nightmare.  Celeborn could almost believe he would wake in a cold sweat to Galadriel's gentle voice as she ran her hands over his face.  He often dreamed of Doriath._

_But Galadriel was safe in Lindon, with Celebrian.  And Eregion was as real as Doriath had been._

_More real, perhaps - in Doriath, he'd had a child and a Silmaril in his arms.   Here, he had a sword, and his hands were hot with blood._

_A few centuries ago, Celeborn thought as he waited for the next wave of orcs to scale the stairs, bemused by the sticky black blood covering his hands, he would've been fighting back the need to be ill, and felt his vomit burning the back of his throat. Now, it wasn't as if he was suppressing it.  It just wasn't there. _

_Celebrimbor kicked an orc off of his blade, and it tumbled with those immediately behind it down the stairs.  He took the moment of respite to survey the horde pressing forward, and the meager force defending…_

_"Celeborn, lead the retreat.  Take the catacombs, so we can get them lost if they try to follow, and pick them off slowly," he ordered briskly, bringing his sword back to its ready position as the orcs lumbered back up the marble stairs.  "And be careful," he added softly._

_"You do the same," Celeborn answered, laying a hand stained black on Celebrimbor's shoulder._

_"Go, if you want any of them to live," Celebrimbor snapped, jerking his head at the Elves fighting around them._

_Celeborn nodded, turned, and was soon lost in organizing the retreat, then deep into the catacombs under the city._

He hadn't known that Celebrimbor had meant to stay on the steps, until the orcs overcame his desperate last defense, beat him, mutilated him, and carried him back to their master.  Perhaps he ought to have, but he didn't.

"Peace awaits him in Mandos," he murmured, words meant to be heard by himself, and his creator, "but may he someday find joy…"

"Lord Celeborn," a voice called from outside the tent.

Celeborn sat up, pushed his braid of burnished silver hair over his shoulder, and stood.  "Come."

The dark-haired Noldor boy backed into the tent, the flap falling open for him as he carried a burden larger than he was, wrapped in a piece of tent canvas.

Hardly a fitting shroud for a Prince of the House of Finwë.

"They left him in the field, among their fallen.  Like so much trash."  The boy's arms shook, either with emotion, or merely the exertion of carrying Celebrimbor's dead weight for miles.  "I had to go back…" he murmured, falling to his knees.  "I know I disobeyed you, but I…"

"You did what you felt was right.  And you're alive," Celeborn said gently.  He accepted the body from him, and laid Celebrimbor on the grass.  The canvas fell aside, and his head lolled out.  Celeborn flinched – his short raven hair was matted with blood, his face bruised and swollen.  But his expression was peaceful, as though he had found some strength beyond himself.  The light had gone out in his grey eyes, and their fire was extinguished.  Kneeling, Celeborn reached out a gentle hand to close Celebrimbor's eyes.

No, not extinguished.  

Just elsewhere.

[  Draft II, courtesy of Finch, who knows Ring-lore much better than I probably ever will.  Thanks for correcting me!

Whew.  Over at last.  This story has been, I think, the most challenging for me to write.  I'm not sure why.  But many many thanks to everyone who I got to read over drafts for me…  Anne, Artanis, Woman of the Dunedain, and particularly Deborah, who's been so supportive throughout.   It's months and months late, and not what you asked for, remotely, but….  A very merry unbirthday? 

As usual, this is a further expression of my respect for Professor Tolkien, and my love of Middle-earth.  I dearly hope nothing I've written would offend him.  But *cries* I'm just a poor little hobbit girl with a fascination with Elves…I can't HELP it!]


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